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I must admit I speak a lot when I think of you. Words about you never come out and yet they gracefully fall upon pages in onyx ink.

Truthness, is what it is. I could tell by the way you let me stay, and stay I do, that says that you don’t want to forget me, and forget you won’t. Yet realizing that you have stopped loving someone is such a barren feeling. It cannot be described and it cannot be felt. Because the feeling does not exist.

You are squeezed in between the sheets of my notebook papers. Each and every part of you, written and bound in between half broken and half forgotten sorrows. Yet, my heart has failed to forget you. Because forgetting you is impossible and forgetting who I am is much easier than letting you go. I’m stuck here wondering if I will ever love someone else in place of you. Because I am a fool that refuses to think that this friction between our two souls is nothing, that our resilience to the laws of the universe cannot be defined in dictionaries. ( but they can be wholeheartedly felt, and felt they are.)

So I write these letters in place of the ones you did not send. Maybe, just maybe, they are all what you meant to say. I don’t know if you’ll remember the satisfaction if sticking a salvaged stamp upon a letter that screams pain. I don’t know if you’ll remember me like I remember you. Do you still love the person I was two years ago?

Because I don’t remember if she existed.